


road paths and road markers

by impossible_rat_babies



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Gen, Other, POV Third Person, major character death in the past tense, this bad boy can fit so much grief in it huh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:35:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21661543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossible_rat_babies/pseuds/impossible_rat_babies
Summary: It's more than just memories and an old apartment left behind when sidestep died
Relationships: Ortega/Sidestep (Fallen Hero), nb!Sidestep/Ortega
Comments: 1
Kudos: 31





	road paths and road markers

There are no roads paths with grief, no guidelines to tell how it’s supposed to go. Ortega wishes it were that way, it would make it easier. It would make the past…days? Weeks? He doesn’t remember yet, still measuring the days by how empty they are and counting the numbers until the funeral. 

It felt rather like standing behind a glass window, watching the world move by in foggy shapes. He sees red everywhere, finding it in mundane places; a vibrant shock of hair or the way the light catches across a glass storefront before reality kicks back into gear and he can’t breathe through his throat clenching with tears. A road path would make this far easier.

A road path would tell him how he’s supposed to feel climbing the stairs of a shitty apartment complex, the stairwell lit with harsh fluorescent lights. He wouldn’t have to stop halfway up, gripping the railing until his fingers were white, hearing the screams and watching Pollux tear himself past them, past and further up the stairs. Further and further, a painting, a balloon…

He hurriedly blinks and he breathes out and in, prying his hand away from the railing. The worst is further ahead; the worst is always further ahead.

Ortega picks the newest additions to his keyring and one needs a jiggle to fit into the deadbolt properly. A move he’s done dozens of times, watched Pollux do it hundreds of times. He picks up the next key and the doorknob is second; he always teased Pollux about his level of security, of anonymity, but now it was another little quirk he misses far too much.

The door clicks open and he pauses, closing his eyes for just a second. A second to breathe, to gather himself back up again, look for the road map that isn’t there.

No next of kin to be found, so the affairs were left to the Rangers. But, personal belongings weren’t paperwork, weren’t under bureaucracy, so Ortega had taken a deep breath and volunteered to take care of Pollux’s apartment. It wasn’t like he owned much at all, but other heaviness, other weight, made every inch of his trek painful. Memories were far from worth their weight and they dragged him down deeper and deeper.

Ortega takes another deep breath and he twists the knob, stepping inside.

Death has a way of throwing everything into upheaval, scattering it all to dust and ashes, but leaves bits and pieces untouched. It lets them lie because they hurt worse when they are left perfectly alone—a perfect snapshot of right before the end, a painful reminder of every single what if, every single thing that could have been done differently.

The apartment paints a perfect picture of Pollux and Ortega silently shuts the door behind him.

The air is still soaked with the smell of bread and lavender; his apartment small enough that the smell soaked into everything, clothes, hair and skin alike. His feet carry him to the small galley kitchen, hand flicking the light switch. It flickers, but the yellowed glow fills the tiny room. 

They spent dozens of hours in his tiny kitchen, Ortega watching Pollux’s hands work flour and yeast to bread, the same worn out jazz music playing on repeat in the background, neither of them caring that it’s the exact same songs over and over again. The meals cooked on the shitty stove, the number of times they caught things on fire. It almost makes Ortega laugh until he remembers how the room is empty and the smell is old, the music silent.

He hopes for a moment that Pollux will walk out of his tiny bathroom, or somehow be hiding in a kitchen cabinet, squished himself into it because he was small enough to do it. Or he’ll crawl out from under his messy sheets, the bed sprinkled with a king sized quilt found discarded at a thrift store. Or he’ll be sitting on his secondhand couch covered in a California King sheet to hide where the springs will poke if you don’t sit on it just right, the faintest crooked smile on his face.

Of course he doesn’t walk out, his apartment cold and empty just like how he’ll be in a few days when they put him in the ground. This place is less like a memorial and more like a coffin, trapping all of who Pollux is–was–inside.

Ortega flicks off the light, burying the kitchen in darkness. He finds his way to the windows, pulling up the blinds, the rear end of a building and an alleyway below the spectacular view.

He looks down at the collection of potted plants still lining the large window sill, pots carefully balanced. Their leaves are still green, still vibrant with life even though they don’t know their caretaker is gone. They don’t know any better, don’t know anywhere better. Still, he makes a note in his head to gather them up and pack them into his car to take them home; it’ll be work to keep them all alive when he has no idea about houseplants, but it’s…it’s something. Something he doesn’t understand.

He takes a deep breath and it’s just the first step.

—

Days later and the apartment in a mess of boxes and cleaning supplies and Ortega sits in the middle of it, taking a long deep breath. It’s easier to climb the stairs, easier to hold back the memories, remind himself that they are only that. It feels nasty to banish the thoughts to the back of his mind, like if he puts them there, he’ll forget about them. But he reminds himself that he won’t forget about it–won’t forget about Pollux. How could he forget? He can’t forget the person he loves.

He looks over to the desk and he removed the posters from around it yesterday along with the other meager trappings around. He carefully folded the nonbinary flag, the colors sun stained but still purple, yellow, black and white. Another thing to keep, to take back to his apartment. The plants found their home on his bookcase at home and he’s slowly learning each one of them. the drive back to his apartment didn’t kill them, thankfully.

He’s avoided the computer, the possibility of frying it very high, but even without that misgiving it still feels intrusive and wrong to go digging around in it, but Pollux is no longer around to tell him no.

His computer screen is dark and he shakes the mouse and the computer purrs to life, the screen slowly coming up to that faded blue. The user comes up—Zachary—an alias Pollux used more often than not. He clicks the user and surprisingly no password comes up, no prompt. Ortega figures no one would go digging in his computer, or that he didn’t keep anything of worth on it. He never trusted that things could truly be off the grid in Los Diablos.

The desktop background is a plain rolling hill of green, likely the same since he first got the computer. Just like every bit of Pollux, the anonymity was his saving grace—even in his personal life. It still feels like a violation as he pulls up the menu, looking over his files; maybe he’d appear behind him, call him an idiot for looking at things he shouldn’t be. Wouldn’t be the first time.

All of his files are generic, most of the empty on further inspection. A pretense, an illusion at normalcy; Pollux was never shy about how empty his life was outside of the Rangers. Something Ortega pitied once upon a time. He sighs and clicks on yet another folder–videos–expecting what he’s found each and every time: emptiness. But he finds another folder, this one much less generic, much more personalized.

“Ortega, 2013.”

This year, this year; maybe not too long ago. He clicks and the folder and….it’s filled to the brim of photographs, snapshots of the both of them. All across Los Diablos, all from their various adventures across the city whether on a late night bar crawl to times when they just wanted a friend to get lost with. Pollux loved getting lost in the city, finding the places where nobody knew who they were or where they were going. They were just faces passing in the crowd. Ortega never quite understood the quiet need for privacy and anonymity that Pollux always insisted on, but being lost in a place where no one knew who he was….he understood then.

He scrolls to the bottom and back up to the top before he clicks on a random photograph. He recognizes it, just like if he looked at all the others he would know them too.

Taken in Hoots, a selfie when they both had one drink too many. The lights are neon and the room is dark, but it’s not hard to catch their faces in the harsh glow of the camera’s flash. Both smiling, eyes bright even though he remembers how his retinas burned and how Pollux had complained that he had turned on the flash on purpose. But in that captured moment Pollux looked cheerful, smiling in that way that filled his eyes, not the ones when he gave him to make him happy, to get him off of his back for a little while longer.

Ortega sighs heavily and he rubs his chin, clicking to the next photograph. Hoots again, this time both of them sticking their tongues out at each other. The next one is him ruffling his hair, and Pollux’s hands are a blur, but it isn’t hard to see how he’s trying to push his hand away. He pauses at the next one, his arm wrapped around Pollux, faces inches apart.

Another one of those almost situations, the brief seconds where one more step forward was all it took. Three words he had held onto for far too long, never saying them, afraid. What was he afraid of? Undoubtedly something silly that didn’t really matter now. Death puts too much of the world into perspective, drags up all the things he should have said–things he needed to say, but he’ll never get the chance to say them.

He clicks on the next one it’s not a photo, but a video. He takes a deep breath and clicks on it despite how his stomach rolls, the scene vastly different from the photographs. The light is that warm color right before sunset, trees above scattering the light across well loved sidewalks. Memorial park, no doubt. A frequent place for the two of them to go on long walks. 

Pollux’s back is to him, walking with his arms outstretched along the narrow concrete wall protecting the hedges. It wouldn’t be the first time he took a tumble into those hedges, but he keeps his balance, swaying with each step. Even outside of his uniform, there’s a grace in his gait, lightly stepping from one foot to the next, staying on his toes. He isn’t…

Wasn’t Sidestep for nothing

“Pollux!” 

The camera turns and Ortega’s breath catches as Pollux spins around, lips curling into a smile, brow arching behind his sunglasses, continuing along the concrete wall.

“What’s up Ricky boy?” 

The smile even reaches his voice and Ortega sits back in the creaky office chair, a deep breath rising in and out of his chest, hands clasping tight. He remembers this now, remembers the night. Not long after another successful mission and Pollux had asked him on another walk. Nothing special, nothing different save for the lightness in his step, the smile that had appeared more than once–Ortega had been keeping count–and the way he had even hummed once or twice. La Vie En Rose, if he was placing the trumpet line correctly. Nothing short of unusual to say the least.

“I have a question for you.” 

Pollux stopped walking along, waiting for Ortega to get close. Even in the vague lighting from the video, he sees the freckles across his cheeks, the moles that trace a triangle across his face, the gap in his front teeth as he smiles. How he pushes his sunglasses back up, but still grins.

“Asking is free.”

His voice is soft and he knows the camera is on–he asked him later if he had recorded that and there wasn’t much use in not telling the truth. He hadn’t minded, just nodded and kept on with it. He never said if it really bothered him and it was just like Pollux to get the truth of the matter when he was no longer around to lie.

“Are you happy? Here and now?”

Pollux pauses, brow almost crinkling–eyes looking away–like he’s going to think too hard about it. Ortega knows that look and even now his breath catches hard and sharp in his lungs. He’ll joke, deflect, keep his feelings to himself…lie about it like he always did. Ortega knows how this goes and his hand covers his mouth, biting his lip hard.

The crinkle fades to a crinkle around his mouth and he nods, slow and steady. His smile is shy, but it’s still there. Really and genuinely there

“Yeah….yeah, I’m happy. I’m happy here and now, Ricardo.”

The video sharply cuts off, the still on Pollux’s face shining happily in the warm light of the sunset. He wanted to know if it wasn’t just a fluke, that the happy look on his face wasn’t just for his sake, but that he was actually happy. Pollux didn’t talk about where he had come from, but Ortega knew it was nothing good; no one wants to forget where they came from unless it wasn’t good. He spent years hoping that he would find a place with them–find a home in the Rangers. See them as people to like, friends to have, people who cared about him.

He gingerly reaches out towards the screen, thumb tracing the curve of Pollux’s smile. The screen is warm, but it doesn’t feel like skin. Doesn’t feel like that night, how he walked him home after a walk, a soft kiss between them that neither of them knew what it meant. There would be no more walks after that, no more gentle times spent together. 

Five days after that and it was racing up apartment stairs, frantically backtracking at the flurry of gunshots. Breaking into the room, Pollux silhouetted against a balloon, gun cocked and raised to his lips. 

Glass shattering, racing to the window. Can’t grab him in time, can’t reach him–the sickening sound of flesh meeting the concrete and anguish tears from his throat.

The image blurs with tears and Ortega crumples in, tears running through his fingers pressed over his face. His shoulders shake and he crumples in on himself, the apartment dead quiet as he cries. There’s nothing pretty about it–it’s all raw, it’s all pain.

There are no road maps to grief, no trails to follow. No long walks in parks where everything is tied up nicely with a bow, where he can look back at the quiet memories and feel contented about what happened, how it was supposed to go this way. It wasn’t and all Ortega can see are the countless mistakes–everyday finding newer and more frightening ones to add to the list. No way out, no way forward; no road map to trace, to find his way out.


End file.
